


Disarmed

by Luthien



Series: Disarmed [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-01
Updated: 2002-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape attempts to deal with the loss of that which he values most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarmed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest, response to Second Wave Original Scenario Number 35: His lover's habit of draping an arm over him during the night is driving Snape crazy.
> 
> This story is set when Harry is an adult but was written in 2002, so it's obviously NOT canon compliant with the later books.

My eyes spring open and I am wide awake, instantly tensed and ready to spring up and confront whatever threat has disturbed my rest. The twilight time between sleeping and full wakefulness is not something I have experienced since boyhood. I am asleep, or I am awake. There is no in between.

Another second passes, and I've become aware of the dead weight lying across my chest. It's a familiar weight, as familiar as the experience of waking suddenly in the night has become of late. Some of the tension leaves me, displaced by a flash of irritation.

I don't know why I continue to put up with his presence in my bed. I should send him back to his own quarters once we've... afterwards. I've almost done it, almost sent him away, a score of times. And yet somehow the deed remains an almost, never firming into a certainty. Each time, he curls up beside me and I find myself thinking that really, it would harm nothing and no one to let him stay a little while. The bed is large enough that I don't have to touch him. He might as well not be lying beside me at all.

I don't deceive myself with these little lies I tell, of course, but the practice of slipping around the truth comes as second nature to me after the life that I have led.

The weight of his arm is heavy against my ribs. It must be a week since I last slept the night through without having one of his limbs flung across me without so much as a by your leave--not that I would have granted leave for him to do so had he asked.

I could almost have excused it if it had occurred just the once. Twice, perhaps at a pinch. But every night for a week is annoying to the point of infuriation. The fact that I have made no move to put a stop to it in all that time only serves to infuriate me further. There is something about the action that makes me feel uneasy. It's a careless gesture. Too relaxed. Too incautious. Too _sure_. It highlights the differences between us. Or perhaps not: I can't get over the idea that there is calculation in the very carelessness of it. But now I'm second-guessing, assuming that his mind works along lines similar to my own. Besides, what possible reason could there be for doing it at all, if it's on purpose? Unless it's symbolic somehow. Part of some sort of ritual. But no. That's too complicated for him. Something simpler, more basic.

A protective gesture?

Now that seems all too likely.

I have my answer and it sends the hot flood of anger rushing through me, right to my fingertips, which curl into my palms as, with an effort, I manage to keep the violent feeling from erupting into violent action.

I am not the one who requires protection.

Violence wins. I reach across to grab his shoulder and shake him awake, but he is ahead of me, even when asleep. His left leg curls around my right and then he's all over me, a heavier, more delicious weight than his arm alone. My awareness is centred on his thighs, which are clamped hard around my upper leg. His hands clutch desperately at my torso, stroking and pulling slightly at my skin, as though searching for something. He presses against me, pushing me down further into the bed, and mutters something urgently into my collarbone. His words are garbled, but I catch enough to comprehend the gist of what he's saying. "Kill 'em. Got to. Got to. Get it. Get it."

His legs cling even harder around mine, gripping tightly, as though to maintain balance-- and suddenly I know what's going on. My anger turns to disbelief: He's playing Quidditch in his sleep.

Hardness presses against me, but it's not just his thighs this time. I'm not really surprised--the exhilaration of the game has been known to make boys as hard as their broomsticks before this--but a part of me is dying to make an acid comment about his current state. However, that would require waking him up. I'd rather not awaken him. I should probably get him off me before he decides to make a grab for the Snitch, though. The question is: How to do so without disturbing him?

"Mmmm. Severus," he murmurs, and answers the question for me. He rubs against me, his intention clear.

I'm ready to explode, but with anger rather than desire. He's been awake all along. Fingernails dig into my palms again. I've done that so often lately that I welcome the familiarity of the pain. Something consistent, at least. That, and the accompanying anger.

I pull away from him and leave him stranded and alone in the middle of the bed. "I am not your plaything," I hiss, "to be taken when needed. Find some other victim."

That wakes him up properly. I can just make out the dark shape that must be his arm reaching out to the bedside table for his wand. A quietly spoken " _Lumos_ " and I blink against the light. After the requisite number of seconds, my eyes adjust and I find that he's looking at me. There's no anger showing in his expression. No games. Just a serious look. A sad look. "There's no time for that sort of time-wasting," he says, and I cringe. I cannot bear to look at him. "It's going to be sunrise soon."

"So?" The word sounds petulant and childish to my ears. When did that happen? When did we swap roles in this game we play?

"So this is all we have," he says, all in the same quiet, sad _firm_ voice.

I've had enough of this. I pull myself out of the covers, a slightly time-consuming exercise because I've become entangled in the sheet in the course of my attempts to disentangle myself from him. After a short battle, I emerge victorious and stand, clutching the sheet up against me together with the shredded remnants of my dignity.

"Then we have nothing," I say.

He frowns at that: a crease appears between his brows and his lips thin.

I've hurt him. Good. He should hurt. He should suffer. He should-

I need to get out of here. I cannot control myself. The anger is simmering just below the surface, just barely contained.

I stomp into the bathroom and slam the door shut. More childish behaviour, and not nearly so satisfying as it should have been. I spell the lock. Nothing short of Albus Dumbledore is going to get me out of here before I'm ready. Either Dumbledore or the Dark-

I stand at the basin and keep watch in the mirror, blinking away the water that I cast across my face. I let it drip in tiny rivulets down my cheeks and off my chin, and down further to my chest. I slosh more water all over me: up and down my arms and legs, around my belly, around my hard cock, which will betray me yet if I let it.

I wish he would knock on the door and ask me to come out, but it seems he knows me too well to do any such thing. He doesn't come after me, denying me the opportunity to drive him away.

I stand in the middle of the bathroom floor, dripping, waiting for the sunrise.

 

  


* * *

  


 

Weak winter sunshine streams in through the headmaster's window. The meeting has been in session for some time now and all the while I've been keeping one eye on the world outside, tracking the progress of the sun as it climbs higher in the sky.

Soon, it will reach its zenith.

The headmaster sits behind his desk, watching us. Our three chairs stand in a row before him as though we are a trio of miscreant school children awaiting punishment. I sit here, closest to the window, doing a fair imitation of boredom. Granger's on the other side, looking worried and being singularly unsuccessful in her attempts to hide it. I wouldn't have chosen her to take part in this, but the choice was not mine to make. Harry Potter chose her and there was nothing more to be said. He always surrounds himself with those he feels he can trust. That's one thing he's learnt, at least, even though he's still far too trusting. Right now, he's sitting directly across from Dumbledore in the chair between Granger and me. In the centre of things, as always. Some things never change no matter how much time passes.

Dumbledore stops speaking and his eyes come to rest on the single candlestick standing in the middle of his desk.

The sun has reached that point in the sky. The point of no return.

Harry gets to his feet. The headmaster stands as well, and comes out from behind his desk. His face is grave as he clasps Harry's arm in farewell.

Granger next. She looks drawn, but her voice remains steady and there's no sign of tears as she says her goodbyes to Harry. My estimation of her fortitude goes up a notch. Perhaps she was the right choice for this, after all. They share a tight hug and she kisses his cheek before he moves away.

I look out the window before he has the chance to get to me. I don't want to say anything to him. There is nothing to say. I wish he would get it over with and be gone.

He's standing in front of me, blocking my view and looking me straight in the eye. It seems I will not be spared the fabled Potter determination. It was too much to hope for, it seems.

I reach for my anger and clutch on to it tight. A sneer threatens to form on my lips.

The determined expression falters. He is unsure. Suddenly, my anger deserts me and I am left unarmed. He's standing there, so close to me that I could reach out and touch him--and he wants me to reach out and touch him, of that I am sure.

I have the opportunity to touch him, now and only now. I could stretch out my hand and feel his skin against mine without even having to take a step from where I'm standing. In five minutes' time the opportunity will be lost, but I could do it now, if I so choose. Right now.

Or not. I could let the sneer form, and send him away so that his last memory of me is much like the first. Well, it would at least be consistent with the vast majority of his memories of me. He could have a complete set.

And what would I have? One more regret on top of a lifetime of regrets.

He decides for me and takes me in his arms. This feels right, his body close against me. His lips and mine. His back under my hands, strong and muscular beneath the slightly scratchy fabric of his robes.

The kiss goes on and on. Usually, I am the one who puts an end to our kisses. Usually, I pull away and leave him wanting more. Not this time. This time the kiss is his. A parting gift, I suppose.

Finally he ends the kiss and draws back. I'm aware, vaguely, of Granger staring at us, and the anger returns. You'd think that people would have got past the surprise of us--the fact that there is an us--by now. Surely it's been long enough. Do they think that just because there have been no public demonstrations--none until now--there were none in private, either?

He's standing there before me still, but time is racing away from us. He has to go, and soon. Suddenly, I can't bear to draw this out any longer. I want the anger--need the anger--to fill me up, to bolster my strength. But instead there's a heavy weight in my chest, heavier than his arm lying on me in the night. I open my lips to speak but no sound comes out. I swallow hard, and try again.

"Come back," I manage, in a low voice. It comes out firm, the command that it pretends to be rather than the hopeless wish that it truly is. There's a tiny smile in his eyes at my words. He's picked up on my unspoken addendum: to me. Come back to me.

"I will," he says, and I'm grateful for the words, even though they hold an empty promise. This will be the death of him. I am sure of that, though in the days leading up to this moment I've mouthed the appropriate polite fictions about his triumphal return. It is one thing to express false hope out loud; to pretend to myself would be the utmost folly.

He will not come back alive.

He turns and strides away from me, not looking back. His broomstick has been leaning against the wall all the while and now it comes to him at his curt command: " _Accio_." He reaches across Dumbledore's desk and grasps the candlestick with his free hand. There's a faint pop as it ports him to wherever he has to be.

He is gone.

Granger sends me a careful, almost sympathetic look, obviously debating whether or not to break the silence. She looks as though she thinks that saying something might ease the situation. The silly girl is clinging on to hope, then. I turn my head away so that she can no longer try to catch my eye.

He is gone.

My face hurts and I realise that my teeth are clenched. I close my eyes for a moment and concentrate on relaxing my jaw. It takes longer than I like to achieve my simple objective and by the time the tension leaves my face I can feel the frustrated anger bubbling up inside me. But of course. Now it returns, when I no longer have the need for it.

Abruptly, I turn back to the other two.

"If you no longer require my presence here, Headmaster, I will return to my classroom." The girl gasps slightly at this and I fasten a frigid stare on her. "This is still a school, Miss Granger, and I am a teacher. The classes will not teach themselves."

She looks at me again, but no longer sympathetic. Incredulous now.

Good. I will not endure her pity.

"Headmaster?" I enquire and turn my attention back to the old man.

"Of course, Severus. Your class is waiting. Second year Hufflepuffs, isn't it?"

" _Sixth_ year Hufflepuffs. And Ravenclaws," I correct him, though surely he knows that almost as well as I. "Good day, Headmaster. Miss Granger," I add with the briefest of nods to bare politeness.

I sweep from the room, aware that my long-perfected swirl of robes does not quite achieve its usual flourish.

He is gone. He will not come back alive.

 

  


* * *

  


 

The sixth years are waiting for me when I return to the dungeons. To my great annoyance, my entrance into the room fails to silence their excited chatter. It continues in the form of surreptitious whispers even after a pall of dismay falls over the room when I tell them to ready themselves for an unscheduled test. I'm really not in the mood to supervise a practical lesson this afternoon--I keep a set of tests in reserve for just such a need. Let them do all the work for once.

I make my way through the classroom between the rows of desks, handing out test papers as I go, whirling around to glare as I hear a stray whisper behind me. Prendergast flushes and looks down at the desktop. Utterly transparent. I take five points from Hufflepuff and her face takes on an even stronger hue. The idiot girl has no talent for dissembling, which should be all the more reason for her complete and unfailing obedience when in my class. She stammers out a question. I can scarcely believe my ears. She's asking me if I'm all right? The fresh impertinence loses another five points for Hufflepuff. Obviously, that Prefect's badge means nothing to her. Dumbledore really should know better than to bestow such honours on unmitigated idiots, no matter how good-hearted they might be. I shudder to think that little more than a year remains for me to force some sort of skill into this lot before they are loosed upon an unsuspecting world. Perhaps I will manage to frighten a little commonsense into them while I'm at it. Only a Hufflepuff would be foolish enough to ask after my health when anyone can see quite plainly that I am just the same today as any other day.

The test begins. Finally, silence reigns, interrupted only by the rustle of my robes as I make my rounds through the room, stopping occasionally to stand close behind a student to check their progress. Mostly, I stay only until the student in question reaches up nervously to loosen his or her collar before I move on.

I return to my desk to begin marking the pile of homework that was handed in at the beginning of the lesson. After five minutes of staring at the same paragraph on the same page I give up in disgust. It seems my powers of concentration are not what they should be today.

I get up again and pace restlessly for the duration of the test.

They are all looking more than a little worn and apprehensive by the time I order them to put their quills down. There is barely time to collect the completed papers before the bell rings. The buzz of conversation starts up again even before they have exited the room. Am I imagining it or do a few of them half-turn to look back at me as they leave? They've never done so before and there is no reason to do so now. I am just the same today as I am every other day.

No, there is no reason for them to stare at me strangely. And no special reason for them to whisper the name 'Harry Potter' as they do so, either.

The next class has more Hufflepuffs in it. These are even worse, being third years. They are also full of chit-chat today. Has someone been making injudicious use of a wind-bag charm? Or is it simply that the wind has changed and brought a rash of talkativeness with it?

I give them a test, too. It warms my heart to see they like it as little as the sixth years did. I haven't lost my touch. There's no reason for anyone to express concerns about my well-being. None of these younger ones is foolish enough to do so, but they, too, keep looking at me, as though slimy old Professor Snape has suddenly become interesting to them. As interesting as Harry Potter.

I am as pleased to see the back of them as they are to quit the room at the end of the lesson. And now I have another pile of tests to mark.

I'm sitting at my desk, sorting through the completed tests and the pile of homework scrolls that have accumulated with each successive class throughout the afternoon, when the last class of the day files into the classroom.

First years. What a joy.

The sixth year class with which I started the afternoon was bad enough. The third years that followed them were equally annoying. No, forget that. The third years were even more irritating, though that should be impossible. But these... these... These little monsters will be quite intolerable.

A gaggle of giggling little Gryffindors wanders into the room behind the rest. Their excited chatter stops abruptly as I look up and silence them with my best forbidding glare.

But not before enough of their conversation has reached my ears.

It appears that word has spread through the school that something important is likely to happen today. Something important involving Harry Potter--and Professor Snape. They shouldn't know anything about that, but of course they do. My shoulders shake in mirthless humour at the idea that we should have thought it possible to keep a secret in this school, which is well-known to leak rumours like a sieve. It doesn't matter at all whether they know any _details_ about the mission, or about anything else that involves the two of us; it is enough that we were noticed sufficiently for the rumours to start up.

I close my eyes against the defeat of hope. His only chance lay in the complete secrecy of the undertaking. The cold closes over inside me. I have often been accused of possessing an icy demeanour; now I have a core of ice to match it.

My eyes snap open and my glare takes in the entire class. After a night of hardly any sleep, a morning spent in putting the finishing touches on a war strategy, and an afternoon full of far too many Hufflepuffs, now I have the unalloyed pleasure of finishing the day in the company of a first year class of Slytherins and Gryffindors combined.

I have a test ready to spring on them, but think better of it even as I reach for the papers. I find I've had enough of the inactivity that accompanies supervising a test. It leaves me with too much time to think. I'll give them the practical lesson I had planned, instead.

I have a simple shrinking potion scheduled for the class. Only minimal skill is required to achieve a fair approximation of a workable result. Just as well, really, considering the lack of application in the Gryffindor ranks. One can always leave it to a Gryffindor to botch up a simple mission.

The ice reaches up from inside me and I eye them coldly. Most of the Gryffindors are still in the process of retrieving their writing materials from their bags. I'll teach them not to mess about, wasting time.

"Today we will be preparing shrinking potions. Turn to page 79 in your textbooks." The ice has seeped into my voice, too, lending it even more menace than I usually employ in the classroom.

Even the Slytherins stare at me. A few of the Gryffindors look up from their bags and gape. For some reason they seem to be even stupider than usual today.

"Now!" I bark out. Bags fall to the floor and pages fly as they rush to obey. A couple of the Gryffindors aren't quite fast enough and Gryffindor has dropped ten points before they're even a minute into the lesson.

Almost all the ingredients required can be taken direct from their potion-making kits. I supply the dried toadfish dorsal fins from the stores cupboard. Before many minutes have passed, the cauldrons are set to the boil and the students begin the straightforward procedure of dicing the ingredients. At least, that's what is supposed to happen.

There's a shriek of dismay from near the back of the classroom. A short, blonde Gryffindor girl--Attwood?--has managed to tip all of her toadfish fins, undiced, into her cauldron. I make my way over and inspect the contents. As I expected, the potion's turned a murky purple and is the consistency of a particularly thick pea soup. She's ended up with wart-growing potion. Wonderful. I've half a mind to make her drink it. Maybe a large wart or two on the end of her nose--and in various other places--will act as a reminder to use her ears next time and listen to what she is told. I doubt that even that would do it. Hopeless. But then, what can one expect from Gryffindors?

The ice constricts in my chest.

Of course that is the moment at which another little good-for-nothing overturns a cauldron and the contents spill out over the floor. Amazing. Two accidents with barely as many minutes between them. That must be very nearly a record, even for Gryffindors. I stop the flow across the floor with a simple halting spell and then I turn, my eyes narrowing as I search out the culprit. Or culprits. The cauldron belongs to d'Ascoyne, a Slytherin, but I suspect a Gryffindor hand in this. Of course, my demand to be told the identity of the party responsible is met with silence. I smile grimly as my subsequent pronouncement that all those at the surrounding desks will assist with the clean-up after class is met with groans of dismay.

There's an ominous rumble from the other side of the room and a squeal for "Professor Snape!" just before still another cauldron belches its entire contents at the ceiling.

"Out of the way! Now!" I command them. They seem completely oblivious to the danger. Already, the shrinking potion is dripping from the ceiling. It appears to be quite potent: a miniature paring knife and textbook sit side by side on the desk closest to the site of the explosion.

I cannot believe this. This is a record. Not even Weasley and- No other Gryffindors--no other students--in all the years I have taught at Hogwarts have ever managed three such calamities in such quick succession. This is a class full of hopeless dunderheads, idiots whose progress will be nurtured through their years attending this school, only to waste it all in the end when they go out into the world and get themselves killed because they will not listen.

I turn on the hapless pair responsible. A couple of latter-day Neville Longbottoms if ever there were. Especially the one on the right, whose cauldron it is, though he doesn't look much like Longbottom. He's shorter, and less stocky, and his hair's much darker. No, he doesn't remind me of Longbottom.

"What do you think you are doing?" I demand to know. To my surprise, the words scream out of me in a heated torrent. I'm not quite sure what happened to the icy, sarcastic enquiry I had planned.

The boy stares at me, eyes large with shock. Useless boy. A Gryffindor, of course. Useless, hopeless _living_ boy. Why is he cowering like that? If he'd just listen to me, things would turn out differently.

"I won't have you polluting my sight another second," I roar. "Get out of this classroom. Now!"

The children gasp. Stupid, lazy little creatures. Complacent that others will keep them safe.

Oh, I have him by the collar. Convenient. I drag him to the door. I'm all set to fling the door open and send him hurtling down the corridor, but when I reach for the latch I find that it, too, will not obey me. It remains stubbornly fast.

I look down and note that my hands are shaking.

I abandon the idea of opening the door by hand and instead reach for my wand. Taking a couple of steps back, I command the door to open. My bellowed " _Alohomora_ " sends it bursting open. Literally. The pieces of the door lie scattered beyond the now-empty doorway.

I consider the broken door. It will need to be replaced. And the floor and ceiling of the dungeon will both require extensive cleaning. There seems to be little point in continuing with this lesson. The best thing to do would be to get rid of the entire class at once before anything more can occur to make the devastation of the classroom complete. I tell them as much.

"Out!" I jerk my head towards the doorway, emphasising the instruction.

I reach for the boy at my side, so as to make a start by forcibly evicting him. However, it appears that at some point in the proceedings I've lost my hold on his collar and he's scurried away out of my reach. No matter. I stand to one side of the doorway, waiting expectantly for him and his classmates to obey my orders and depart as quickly as they are able.

The room is deathly quiet and no one makes a move, or a sound. The little bastards are still standing there, staring at me, occasionally blinking to prove that they are, indeed, alive.

"I thought I told you all to get out? How many times do I have to say it? Are you incapable of obeying the simplest of instructions?"

They stare at me. Why is it beyond them to follow a straightforward command? If they only had a little commonsense there would be no need for this.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of slight movement out in the corridor. I whirl around to find the headmaster standing in the doorway. "Ah Severus," he says, stepping calmly over the debris as though nothing is amiss. As though it is a normal day. "I thought I might find you here."

"And where else would you expect to find me at this time of the day, Headmaster?" I retort through gritted teeth. Not now, Albus. No games, not now. "May I be permitted to know why you have chosen to pay a visit to the dungeons this afternoon?"

"If I might have a word with you in private, Severus?" He follows his usual habit of answering a question with a question, and suddenly his face is grave.

I know what it is he wants to say. I don't want to hear it. I can't avoid it. I already know. Why should I have to hear the words confirming it?

"I think it might be best if we conducted this conversation elsewhere," he continues. He lays a slight emphasis on the last word, but I'm not sure exactly what he's implying. "This class is dismissed for this afternoon," he adds, raising his voice slightly and addressing the class before I have time to as much as open my mouth. "Please gather up your things and leave quietly." The students waste no time in obeying Albus Dumbledore, despite an entire lesson of doing little but proving they are incapable of following my instructions. Dumbledore and I follow the children out of the room. As we depart, the headmaster notes the potion spills on the floor and ceiling. With a couple of words, the room is spotless, as though neither accident ever occurred. "I must remember to ask Filch to do something about replacing the door," he observes in passing.

"Where are we going?" My voice is harsh. I'm really not in the mood for dressing up unpalatable facts in conversational niceties, as though that will somehow make them easier to bear. I far prefer the simple, unvarnished truth if I must suffer it at all.

"Just wait until we get there," he says, eyeing the walls in what he obviously considers to be a significant manner. I want to hit him. I don't care if he thinks this place is too public for such a discussion. I want an answer now. But I follow him just the same.

We climb the staircases one by one. It's a long way up from my dungeons. For once, the staircases are lacking their customary recalcitrance. It's as if they know that this particular errand is too sombre a one for light-hearted malice.

The climb--and the wait to ask the question that burns at my lips--seems interminable. We're almost halfway up the third staircase when I find that I can't wait any longer.

"How did he die?" I force the words out past dry lips. I have to know, at least the bare bones of it, if not the details. I don't want to know; hearing the answer will make it real.

But I have to know.

Dumbledore stops on the stairs. So do I. I wait for him to speak.

"I would have preferred that we leave this conversation until we reach our destination. However, such a question demands an immediate answer."

His expression is even more grave than the one he wore in my classroom.

"Severus, you are labouring under a misapprehension," he says, his tone curiously gentle. "Harry is alive."

I stare at him. The words make no sense. He says something more to me, though I don't comprehend the words he uses. The old man's spouting gobbledygook.

I clutch at the banister, holding myself up with considerable effort before I abandon the struggle and sink down onto a stair. I can't say a word. My throat has closed up and I seem to be turning my head from side to side. Dumbledore is crouched beside me and leaning over me in an instant. He doesn't try to speak any more nonsense, but pulls me forward slightly and then the flat of his hand is hard against my back. A stray thought that he's surprisingly strong crosses my mind and is gone as I start to choke against the constriction in my throat. I convulse in a fit of coughing that ends on a long breath which sounds like a sob. At least, it might sound like a sob to someone who didn't know better. Fortunately, the headmaster does know better, as do I.

Harry is alive.

"Where is he?" I rap out, annoyed that I didn't ask the question immediately.

"He's here in the castle. In the hospital wing--which is our destination, as it happens." He helps me to my feet before I realise what he's doing; I'm not so far gone that I need assistance in standing up, particularly not from a man a hundred years my senior. "There's no need to dash up the stairs to the hospital wing," he says, correctly guessing my intention. "You will not arrive there any faster by doing so. In any case, I need to speak to you before you see him. Severus," his voice hardens slightly on my name and I glance at him sharply. "He's alive, but he's not unhurt."

I forbid my throat to close up again and, to my relief, it obeys me. "How not unhurt is he, exactly?" I ask carefully.

"He appears unharmed. There doesn't seem to be so much as a mark on his body."

"But...?" I press him.

"He's unconscious, just as he was found at the scene. No measure we've tried so far has been successful in waking him. He looks- but come, you can see for yourself." And he starts up the stairs again.

Harry is alive. The words repeat stupidly in my head as we continue on our way, up the endless flights of stairs to the hospital wing.

 

  


* * *

  


 

They leave me alone with him. There's no reason not to. It's not as if there's anything they can do for him unless he wakes. Besides, I know, better than anyone else in this castle, just what it is that has done this to him. Repeated exposure to certain dark magics can have all sorts of consequences, and Harry has been pitted against such magics with sickening regularity since infancy. After enduring all of that is it any wonder that now, after the final, successful strike, he is lost to us, in mind if not in body?

He lies there, unmarked, apparently unharmed, just as Dumbledore said. His hand is icy to the touch as I enfold it in both of mine. He looks as pale and cold as death. Only the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest gives the lie to the picture.

I run my hand along his forearm. I can feel the chill in his skin there, too. Quickly, I strip off my robes and pull off my shoes. Then I pull back the covers and get into bed beside him. I gather him into my arms so as to share my body's heat with him. His back fits against me as easily as always. My hand slips beneath his pyjama top and I can feel the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

Harry is alive. The words echo in my head.

 

  


* * *

  


 

It's hours later, some time after midnight. I have stayed here, all this time, slowly returning the heat to his body. We are alone, still, though Dumbledore has been and gone a number of times. Granger, too. No one else knows we are here save Pomfrey, and she will not return before morning. The world has retired for the night and only he and I remain.

He stirs against me. I loosen my hold and wait to see what will happen next. He murmurs something under his breath and tries to struggle free of me. I let go of him completely and he rolls onto his back. His eyes blink open and he looks up at me, smiling in the soft lamplight.

Harry is alive. At last the words make sense.

"I like it when you're in bed with me."

I am slightly nonplussed. These are not exactly the first words one expects to hear from a hero just back from the dead. But I shouldn't be surprised. How typical of Potter to utter the first thought that comes into his fool head.

Slightly unfocused brilliant green eyes continue to regard me sleepily. Expectantly. Perhaps he is waiting for me to say that I like being in bed with him, too, or some such idiotically sentimental response?

"You came back," I say instead. Oh brilliant. Now I am the one speaking the first thought that comes into my head.

"You told me to," he replies.

"It's about time you finally learned to heed my instructions." The gibe comes automatically to my lips, but as I speak one of my hands steals up from beneath the covers to gently stroke his cheek.

There's an equally gentle brush of lips against mine, and then he tucks his head against my shoulder. He is asleep again in moments.

I lie there a long time, unmoving. I watch him sleep, his eyelids fluttering occasionally as he dreams. I listen to the soft, rhythmic intake of his breath. I feel the living heat of his skin against me.

Finally, I draw him close and drape a protective arm across him. I'll leave it there until he wakes again.

Let's see how _he_ likes it, shall we?


End file.
